he stands…

he stands...

‘rusted boat, he stands, rusted in time… looks to the red and white house for a beacon of some sort of light; footprints on sand, not his, they dance all around his life; in a brown case, his soul, it mimics black crow in flight’. Afternoon coffee with Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry® © 2013.

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This entry was posted in Poetry.

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